


the art of falling in lust (love)

by moniker



Series: the art of [2]
Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2838317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moniker/pseuds/moniker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Feeling better?” Ian mumbles, half asleep.</p><p>“Yeah,” replies Anthony softly, unable to keep himself from sounding hopelessly fond. “Thanks.”</p><p>(aka Anthony's POV of 'the art of becoming (too) adaptable')</p>
            </blockquote>





	the art of falling in lust (love)

**Author's Note:**

> This is Anthony's POV of the second half of 'the art of becoming (too) adaptable' although it's slightly AU in that the ending is a lot pornier. I definitely suggest reading that first, but it's really up to you. (I'm not so sure this does well as a standalone though.)

_What the fuck,_ thinks Anthony when he sees Ian kissing a guy in the Smosh Games studio parking lot.

He’s irrationally angry, wants to walk over there and punch the guy in the face. On behalf of Mel, he thinks vaguely, except fuck, Mel’s not in the picture at all because they broke up already.

The guy gets back in the car, drives off, and Ian waves him goodbye.

He stops dead when he turns around and sees Anthony. Deer-in-headlights look (it’s adorable), he flushes red. It’s so fucking appealing, and goddammit, he hates it when he thinks of his best friend like this.

It’s been getting worse since he and Ian reconciled (technically it wasn’t actually a fight, but it was worse than any fight they’d ever had). It hasn’t been this bad since he was teenage and horny all the fucking time.

This insane attraction to Ian, it comes in bursts. Sometimes he’ll look at Ian, and it will be unbearably hard to not press him into a wall, lick into his mouth, mouth at his neck and his stupid beardy face. And then sometimes (usually) he can look at Ian and almost forget that he’s ever seen him as anything but his platonic best friend.

Ian avoids him for the rest of the day, and Anthony spends the time wondering what the fuck he’s going to do. He knows he’ll need to confront Ian eventually, because fucking what the hell, you don’t tell your fucking best friend that you like guys? What, is he untrustworthy enough to know these things? But he doesn’t think he can deal with this when he can’t even look at Ian without picturing him several pornos at once.

The choice doesn’t end up being his though. After filming, as they’re leaving the studio, Ian says, “We need to talk.”

And fuck, because he spent the day stewing in self-righteous anger (and really raunchy mental images), but it all dissipates in an instant, replaced by nerves. He always like being in control of the situation, and Ian being upfront about and taking charge of the situation throws him for a loop.

It’s like all his anger has slipped into Ian’s body and had babies, because it feels like for every ounce of indignant anger Anthony felt during the day, Ian now has two. It actually scares Anthony a bit when he snaps at him in the car. (Also his dick twitches in interest because _fuck_ , apparently angry Ian is also a really hot Ian, but that’s neither here nor there.)

At least he knows that Ian’s nervous too, he thinks, because Ian’s only been an ass like this once before, and that time he’d almost peed his pants because he was so anxious. Even knowing that, the cold anger is terrifying and puts Anthony off kilter. He doesn’t know how to act around this version of his best friend.

He feels supremely out of place in Ian’s hotel room, standing awkwardly while Ian leaves the room and comes back with a drink. For a moment, when Ian drops down onto the sofa and asks, “What’s up?” as if Anthony’s randomly barged into his house to awkwardly stand in the doorway, his anger returns and a rush and he opens his mouth, ready to give Ian a piece of his mind. He’s unprepared for how wide apart Ian has his knees though, and his eyes catch on where the soft cloth of his pants is stretched obscenely over his crotch. His cheeks burn and he shrinks back, furiously trying to shut his brain up.

“Sorry,” he hears Ian say quietly. “Sit down.” 

He does, sinks down into the couch and brings his hands to his face. They’re startlingly cold against his cheeks. “So, uh,” and fuck, his voice sounds rough. “You’re gay?” He keeps his eyes glued to the floor, doesn’t dare look up.

“Bi,” answers Ian sharply, and Anthony flinches. “It’s a thing. You’ve met Mel, I believe?”

Well, you did break up, he half wants to say, but he’s not stupid. Instead he asks about The Guy.

And, fuck, because, apparently Ian’s been in a threesome for six months, and his mind is going crazy. What the fuck is wrong with him? Ian hasn’t described anything scandalous—hasn’t said anything beyond names and “we were together”—but his mind is running into overdrive, and he’s not sure if he’s more turned on or more jealous. He’s always been a bit jealous of Mel—although usually friend-jealous—but she’s a cool girl. This guy, Matt, though, he doesn’t know at all, and he hates him with a passion. His brain is filled with images of a mysterious, handsome man ravaging Ian, fucking him into a bed, over a table, onto a wall, and shit—he’s been silent for way too long. “Were you ever going to tell me?” he blurts out, crossing his legs to hide his increasingly obvious boner. “Not that you would have had to, but you know. I’m your best friend.” And the hurt that goes into that last sentence legitimate, even if it’s currently being overshadowed by the anger and lust shooting through his blood.

He blinks hard when Ian mentions, off hand, that Mari knows. _What the fuck,_ he thinks, because since when is fucking Mari closer to Ian than he is?

“She walked in looking for Mel at a bad time,” explains Ian apologetically, and wow, that is some imagery, picturing Ian sandwiched between— _Old grandma,_ he thinks frantically, _Grandpa’s dangly bits—_

“Okay,” he grunts as he uncrosses his legs and shifts forward to hide his dick better. “Is that it?” Fuck, he’s going to embarrass himself if he doesn’t leave soon, because Ian is definitely going to notice if he stays much longer.

“Yeah,” says Ian, and Anthony makes an awkward lurch up so that he can keep his crotch angled away from Ian’s eyes, and heads for the door.

“Anthony,” sighs Ian, and fucking hell, _shut up, mind_ , because immediately his brain translates that to a much breathier version. He doesn’t hear half of what Ian says—something about just acting normal—and escapes with a “Bye buddy” the second he stops talking.

He almost jerks off in his car right there in the hotel parking lot, but he’s paranoid that Ian will come knocking, catch him moaning his name, scream in disgust, and fly to Russia to avoid him. 

Instead, he makes it to a mostly-empty lot five minutes away before pulling his cock out and jacking it hard, even though it’s almost public sex and way too voyeuristic for him and he might get caught, and oh _god_. He comes with the image of Ian as a police officer riding his dick burned into the inside of his eyelids. Fuck, he thinks, looking at the come splattered on his clothes and steering wheel, and _Fuck_ , when he imagines Ian lapping it up. His dick makes a valiant effort to get hard again.

—

He can’t look at Ian in the eye next day, and clams up everytime he gets near, because he can’t help but dredge up every single dirty image he’s thought (he jerked off once after he got home, and once more in morning—thank the gods that Kalel was out for the week).

He knows he’s acting weird—the entire Smosh Games crew plus the camera guys, and pretty much everyone he bumps into eye him like he’s got two heads—but he can’t bring himself to stop.

Ian’s not much better; the only thing he says to Anthony all day is “Suck it,” which is possibly the worst possible thing he could have said (Wes better edit out the sudden flare of red that happens on his face).

On his way home, he gets a text from Ian.

 _not bad,_ it reads. _could have done without the impression of a shitty record player_

Anthony scowls, because that is a terrible comparison—he froze up whenever Ian was around, he didn’t jump oka—well actually, he did twice. You know what, _haha fuck you_ , he sends back in lieu of a messy rebuttal. This is absolute shit.

He’s not religious, but he prays to the heavens that this period of attraction to Ian doesn’t last long (the longest it’s lasted before is about 2 months—discounting the three years of puberty where literally everything aroused him—and at the intensity he’s suffering it this time, he really doesn’t think he can survive that long).

—

Of course, the gods do not answer his prayers—either because they don’t exist or because they know he’s a nonbeliever—and by the time he sees Ian next, he’s still painfully attracted to him.

He’s nearly as awkward during shooting as he was for the Smosh Games videos, except it’s literally impossible to avoid Ian, so he’s forced to make weird, stilted interaction instead. Once again, he gets eyed weirdly by everyone on the crew, and Ryan actually pulls him aside to ask what’s up (thankfully, he takes one look at Anthony’s face and just says, “Just sort it out, okay?”).

As bad as it is with the crew around, it’s worse without. Ian drives them to a Thai restaurant after filming to shoot a Lunchtime, and they almost don’t talk at all when the camera isn’t on. Anthony knows he’s going to have to do some heavy editing on this episode, because he’s not sure there’s much footage at all where they both have normal faces.

They try to film an episode of Backwards Words, get three words in, and give up. The mood is tense, the words are bad, and the jokes are stale. Lunchtimes are hard enough to do, but Smosh is Bored videos, where they usually really enjoy themselves, are honestly impossible.

Ian loiters for half an hour, during they both sit around the table and awkwardly do their own thing, before leaving with a terse, “See you tomorrow.”

Anthony calls it an early night. He wakes up grinding his hips into the sheets and comes to the vague memory of Ian above him, mouthing at his jugular and pushing down onto his cock.

He doesn’t feel like he got any rest—probably because, instead of resting, his brain spent the entire night creating porn of Ian—and he goes to film with a headache. Make-up scolds him about baggy eyes, and he resists the urge to say that he actually got 12 hours of sleep, because then he’d have to explain why he somehow still looks like shit.

He’d like to blame his lack of sleep for what goes down that day, but he knows deep down that while it might have exacerbated it, it was far from the cause.

What happens is that Ian flirts with the camera man—Alan, Adrian, Ash or some shit like that—and Anthony freaks the fuck out. He’s helping out with the lighting when he sees, and there’s a massive crash and a scream when he knocks over the softbox he was trying to adjust. An accusatory, “What are you going?” rips from his mouth without permission.

Ian and A-something stare at him like he’s crazy before Ian makes a very exaggerated offended face. Someone laughs in the background, and Anthony’s vaguely aware that the cameras are trained on him. They think it’s a joke, he realizes, and dramatically goes, “Don’t touch him!” before stomping over and yanking A-hole out of Ian’s reach. (If he’s a bit rough and almost trips A-dick, well that’s just part of the acting.)

He’s still ridiculously jealous and unreasonably mad when they start shooting the next scene, and it’s just his luck that his Teenage Douchebag character is supposed to be knocking Ian’s Old Man over. He rams Ian far too hard, and he almost slams into a pole. It’s a perfect shot though (Ryan’s really happy with how Ian stumbles off screen), which he tries tell himself to prevent from apologizing to Ian because he’s still stupidly angry.

Apparently Ian knows exactly how to exact his revenge though, because he catches Anthony’s eyes and keeps them trained on his while he sidles over to A-lucky-fucker and flirts with him. He very deliberately bats his eyes once and A-son-of-a-bitch leans in and the entire thing looks disgustingly intimate.

He’s across the room and wrapping his hand around Ian’s wrist before he realizes it, pulling him away as he tosses some random excuse to A-loser-unworthy-of-Ian’s-affections.

“What the fuck?” hisses Ian as Anthony locks the door to the empty writing room.

“What are you thinking?” replies Anthony, whirling around to face him. “I thought you weren’t planning to come out to anyone soon, so what the hell do you think you’re doing, flirting with the fucking camera m—”

“Fuck you,” snarls Ian, getting up into Anthony’s face. He’s close enough that he can see the flecks of gold in his fucking pretty blue eyes and the urge to kiss him is absolutely overwhelming, so when Ian accuses him of being a _fucking homophobe_ , he lunges forward and crashes their mouths together.

It’s a really messy kiss, and their teeth knock together painfully, but for one exhilarating moment, Ian kisses him back, twines their tongues together, and his heart soars (what the fuck, he thinks later, my heart fucking _soared?_ ). His dick’s been half-hard all day, and he can’t help but press his hips into Ian’s, and he swears—he _swears—_ that he can feel Ian’s erection through his pants before Ian bites down hard on his bottom lip and shoves him away.

“Fuck you,” hisses Ian. His lips are shiny and red—with Anthony’s blood, he realizes with a jolt of lust.

“You kissed me bac—” Anthony replies, because there’s no way he’s letting Ian deny that, but then—

“You have a fucking fiancé, you asshole.” And Anthony’s blood runs cold. _Fuck,_ he thinks. _Kalel._ God, what the fuck is he doing, kissing his fucking _best friend_ when he’s _engaged._ It’s one matter entirely to fantasize—they have an unspoken agreement that it’s absolutely fine—but to actually act on it...

“Pull yourself together and wipe your fucking mouth,” says Ian, slamming the door.

And it’s messed up as fuck, but a course of lust shoots down through his body alongside the pain when he tongues at the wound inside his mouth and licks the blood away.

—

As usual—because it’s fucking become a pattern—he jerks off thinking about Ian when he gets home. (He comes biting at the wound Ian left, trying to remember the taste of his lips.) He feels disgustingly guilty afterwards, to both Ian and Kalel, so he sends _I’m sorry_ to Ian (only him, because he can’t send it to Kalel with an explanation). Then he opens a beer and tries to drown his troubles in alcohol. He falls asleep on the couch and wakes up in the middle of the night. Ian’s reply, _we’re not talking about this,_ is sitting on his phone. The half of his beer that’s left is flat, but he drinks it anyways. Then he opens another one and downs that too.

He’s not drunk, but he’s not entirely sober, so when he’s hit with the sudden urge to see Ian, he calls an Uber to drive him over. 

He hits the doorbell twice, but there’s no reply, so he switches to hitting the door. He’s about to start yelling when there’s an angry smack on the door from the inside before it swings open.

“Are you drunk?” asks Ian incredulously when he throws himself onto the couch.

“No. I only had one beer.” Technically two or one and a half, but either way, he’s not drunk. 

Ian seems to believe him, because he simply asks, “Why are you here? Did you lose the keys for the Smosh house?”

“No, I just wanted to see you,” he answers, a bit too honestly. He’s tipsy enough to admit that his attraction to Ian probably isn’t completely sexual.

“Are you sure you’re not drunk,” intones Ian dryly.

Well, that hurts. Is Anthony not allowed to want to spend time with Ian? Well, it probably doesn’t make much sense considering how things have been, but anyways, “We need to talk,” he says.

“I think I said we didn’t.”

“I jerked off thinking about you,” says Anthony, and oops, there’s that honesty again. He may be drunker than he thought.

“I’m not going to be your gay experiment,” says Ian bluntly. “I’m especially not going to help you cheat on Kalel—you know, my friend, your best friend,”—and wow, that hurts too. Ian is supposed to be his best friend, what does he mean it’s Kalel?—“mother of your cats, lovely girl, and, uh, your fucking _fiancé?_ ”

He already feels like shit about Kalel. This is absolutely unnecessary, okay Ian? It’s just that he really can’t stop thinking about Ian, and it’s really bad, and everything about Ian is appealing to him, and maybe if they fuck, it’ll finally get this attraction to simmer down? (He kind of doubts it though.)

“Go fuck yourself. Get out of my house,” says Ian, and whoops, did Anthony say that out loud? He’s exhausted though, his limbs suddenly heavy as bricks, and Ian takes pity on him and says, “Or stay, I don’t care. I’m locking my door”—and wow, does he think that Anthony’s going to jump him? Or, okay, actually it might be a good idea to lock his door—”You know where the extra blankets are.”

He considers not getting them, but it’s actually really quite cold, so he makes it to the cabinet and ends up falling asleep curled outside it, under a pile of sheets and blankets.

—

He wakes up with a crick in his neck and sleepily shoves the blankets back into the cabinet (he makes a mental note to fix them later, but he’s not sure how much he’ll remember before breakfast).

He’s trying to find something edible in Ian’s fridge when Ian zombies past with a snide, “There’s none of your vegan shit here,” and grabs a donut. Said donut gets shoved unceremoniously into Ian’s mouth half a second later, and Anthony would say something about it, except he gets distracted by the ridiculously tight red boxers he’s wearing.

“Eyes up here, asshole,” barks Ian, suddenly hiding out of sight, and his brain spends an extra moment lamenting the loss of the sight, so his response is delayed. His entire reaction time is shit before he eats. Ian takes pity on him again by directing him to the fruits and veggies, and he feels much more alert after taking a sip of his smoothie.

“I’m sorry about yesterday and I’m sorry about the day before,” he says, forcing himself to look straight at Ian (it’s hard; he really wants to blush). “It was stupid and out of line and I admit I was a little drunk.”

“Pour me a glass of that fruity shit,” says Ian, and Anthony smiles because Ian’s always been shit at accepting apologies (and praise).

“I’m sorry. I fucked up and I promise won’t do it again. Let’s go back to normal?” Their hands brush as Anthony hands over the drink, and it sends electricity flying up his arm.

Ian smiles at him, saying, “None of that shitty acting you did last time?”

Okay, he thinks, heart beating fast (because wow Ian is really pretty). He can do this. 

“I promise.”

—

“We need to talk,” says Kalel in November. The break up is amicable, and, contrary to what he’d been fearing and half-expecting, has nothing at all to do with Ian. She says, “I love you, but I feel like we’re limiting each other. We can do better separately than together.” 

He says, “It doesn’t feel like we’re living up to our potentials, does it?”

They part with a bitter-sweet kiss, promise to keep being friends, and that’s that.

When he tells Ian, he looks at him seriously and says, “I’m sorry.” Anthony wonders if breaking up with Mel (and Matt, he thinks unhappily) felt like this too. Then Ian says, “Still not going to be your gay experiment,” with a smirk, and it hurts like hell. He doesn’t need to be told that Ian might be into guys, but he is, in no uncertain terms, not into Anthony. It’s probably better, he thinks, that he won’t get a taste and never have it again, than if Ian actually did pity fuck him once.

Then Ian distracts him (he’s very good at that) from his self-pity fest by asking suddenly if they broke up because of him, before distracting him again by being a little shit and a really good friend. They play Mario Kart and Mario Party and Smash Bros. and a bunch of platformers that Ian never touches on a regular basis until they can hardly keep his eyes open anymore.

“Feeling better?” Ian mumbles, half asleep.

“Yeah,” replies Anthony softly, unable to keep himself from sounding hopelessly fond. “Thanks.”

Ian huffs affirmatively into his elbow, fast asleep. Anthony grabs a thick blanket from this room to cover them, twines their feet together, and goes to sleep on the other end of the couch. (He has to resist wrapping his arms around Ian and cuddling in next to him, but it’s almost as nice.)

—

When the 2 month mark passes and he’s still attracted to Ian, it only serves to confirm his suspicions that he’s not just in periodic lust with Ian again—he’s in love with him.

It’s equal parts great and hard to deal with, and he’s feeling particularly masochistic when he invites Ian to live in LA. It’s definitely something he wants, regardless of how hard it’s going to be having Ian in close quarters and getting to see him more often, but he’s surprised when Ian actually agrees.

They don’t end up living together—because Daisy and Pip and Pip and Ian don’t mix—but that’s probably for the better. Anthony’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the self control to live with Ian walking around his boxers, being grumpy and adorable and so close all the fucking time, without doing things he’ll regret.

It’s difficult enough as it is, because Ian drops by now and then to stay the night (he takes allergy medication and Anthony keeps one guestroom off-limits to Pip), and he gets tantalizing glimpses of what he desperately wants but can’t have. (Anthony’s never strong enough to not sleep in the guest bed the day after.)

Editing IanH videos becomes something he loves and hates in equal measure, because the way Ian looks at him is unbearably fond and loving. It’s incredibly hard to remind himself that because Ian’s so fucking pretty, he always looks like he’s shooting heart eyes at people, no matter who he’s with. On the contrary, it’s really fucking obvious how much Anthony adores Ian (he’s kind of horrified to realize that he giggles at his jokes like a tween girl with a crush), and he really hopes Ian doesn’t watch their videos, because it’s glaringly obvious even with the worse of the excess cut out.

—

Just when things seem to be going well (Anthony’s just beginning to skirt around the idea of maybe confessing to Ian), everything, of course, goes to shit.

He drives over to Ian’s—because that’s a thing they do now, unannounced visits at random hours of the day—and, for whatever reason, goes straight to turn the doorknob instead of ringing or knocking like a normal person.

The sharp exhale that rushes out of his lungs isn’t entirely shock, because it’s absolutely obscene, the image before him—the way the man is draped over Ian’s front, gyrating down onto his hips, the way Ian’s eyes flutter open, the way he bites his lips, and the fucking way his hips arch off the couch, his blue eyes stuck to Anthony’s like they’re magnetic, even as he comes.

“Sorry,” he hears himself say, distant and muddled, before slamming the door shut. He almost doesn’t remember leaving the building and climbing into the car before he has one arm thrown across his burning face and the other shoved down the front of his pants. It doesn’t take him more than three jerks before he’s spilling into his boxers, because apparently whenever Ian’s involved, he reverts to being an inexperienced virgin without any stamina.

—

Like last time, Ian doesn’t come after him. _Too busy having fun_ , thinks Anthony, and he wants to puke.

He doesn’t know how he’s going look Ian in the eye ever again. He thought he could deal with significant others, because he’d dealt fine with Mel—but he hadn’t been in love with Ian back then (or at least not aware of it), and he hadn’t had to see it with his own eyes, and boyfriends are different, because all Anthony can think about is the fact that even though Ian likes guys, Anthony doesn’t have a chance, isn’t good enough.

He fills Pip’s food and water to the brim and buries himself under his covers, hoping that he can sleep for a solid 24 hours and wake up to find that everything was a nightmare.

He wakes up twice during the night, goes for a pee break the second time, and falls back asleep. He wakes up in the afternoon with a _hey_ from Ian that annoys him like hell, because what the fuck does “hey” mean? He doesn’t reply; instead he retreats back into his bedroom and tries to sleep again. He just ends up tossing and turning miserably in his bed, half-asleep but too rested to sleep properly, until 3 in the morning, at which point he texts Ian to call off their plans to film IanH videos, because there’s no way he can do this. Apparently he also missed a call, but clearly Ian didn’t try very hard if he only called once. He takes a shower and curls up on the couch. Pip joins him. (He very miserably says to him, “At least you love me, right?”)

Hunger wakes him up at 10, and he’s finishing up a plate of pancakes when the doorbell rings. _Fuck_ , he thinks, because it’s probably Ian. It might not be, he reasons, and forces himself to relax and take another bite of his food. When it starts ringing nonstop, he knows it’s Ian, and when the pounding starts, he definitely knows it’s Ian. When the yelling starts, there is a brief moment where he considers keeping up the charade of being absent before he rushes to the door because he has _neighbors_ , dammit Ian.

Ian hurls in when he flings open the door, a shush on his lips, and his arms go up instinctively to steady him before his brain catches up and he drops them immediately. He sidesteps him and steps into the hallway to apologize to the neighbors emerging from their doorways. Old Mrs. Taylor next door tuts and shakes her cane at him, and he winces as he says sorry.

He has half a mind to scold Ian, but seeing him reminds him of what he saw and it takes all the wind out of sails.

“So you _were_ in here,” says Ian, apparently without shame.

“Was that really necessary?” asks Anthony to the floor.

“Is this really going to be this weird every time this happens?”  
  
“Is this really going to happen again?” Anthony frowns.

“I don’t do it on purpose,” says Ian, sitting next to the rumpled pile of blankets on the couch. He doesn’t say anything else.

He has to know; it’s killing him wondering even if the answer’s probably going to hurt worse. “Was that,” he swallows. “Was that your boyfriend?” It’s painful to ask.

“It was Matt,” replies Ian, which is a non-answer. Does he know that Anthony’s in love with him? Is he trying to spare him agony by mincing his words?  
  
“Your boyfriend?” he forces himself to ask, because he needs to hear it.

Of course, Ian answers with, “Why does that matter?”

“Just. Is he? Your boyfriend?” Just say yes or no (preferably no, because yes is going to tear his heart out of his chest).

“What does it matter to you?” asks Ian, and the “to you” sets him off.

“Of course it fucking matters—” he starts, and then stops abruptly because this is not going to be how he tells Ian, if he even ever tells him at all.

“Anthony,” says Ian, sounding disappointed, “if you’re going to get this upset every time I’m with a guy, it’s going to be a problem.” 

 “Then I guess we have a fucking problem,” snaps Anthony, because fuck Ian if he thinks that Anthony’s jealousy being an inconvenience is more important than Anthony being fucking heartbroken. 

“I don’t get it, Anthony,” Ian says, sounding tired. “We established last time that you weren’t a homophobe.”—and Anthony’s anger level rises just thinking about that—”Is this a territorial thing? I thought you got over wanting to fuck m—”

And that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back: the fact that Ian thinks that all Anthony cares for is to fuck him.

“I’m in love with you, asshole,” he snaps. “I’m in love with you, okay?” It’s as shitty as romantic confessions come, and he regrets it the second the words leave his mouth.

Incredibly, Ian’s reply is fucking, “Where’s the camera?”

“ _What?_ ” says Anthony, because that is a non-sequitur, and excuse me I just confessed my love to you, can you not fucking change the topic?

“This is a prank,” says Ian, ripping Anthony’s heart out and stomping on it. “Where is the camera?”

“Fuck you,” hisses Anthony, because apparently the idea that he’s in love with him is so inconceivable and insulting that it must be a prank.

“This is a joke. You’re not in love with me.”

“You’re right,” Anthony spits bitterly, retreating into the nearest chair, because his legs are about to fucking give out. “I hate you, you fucking asshole.”

“You’re in love with me?” asks Ian softly after a beat, sounding incredulous. 

This is the worst case scenario, thinks Anthony, gritting his teeth together and trying to sink into the ground. He starts when Ian touches him, puts two hands on his thighs and leans forward. He whimpers when Ian kisses him and brings one arm up to cup the back of his neck. He’s afraid to move.

“Kiss me back, you asshole,” whispers Ian into his ear, breaking the kiss and leaning back, one hand still behind Anthony’s neck. Anthony surges forward, heart high in his throat and pounding way too fast, and latches onto Ian’s mouth. If this is Ian taking pity on him or going crazy, then he’s going to make the best of it.

They crash into the couch, and Ian makes a breathy sound when Anthony mouths at the soft skin under his ear and whispers a soft, “Yes.” Anthony groans, because Ian fucking letting him mark him does things to his libido. He sucks hard and messy at Ian’s jaw, but breaks off with a moan when he feels hands at his waist.

“Fuck,” he says, as Ian pushes down his sweats and his boxers, and then “ _Fuck,”_ when, without warning, he mouths at his cock.

“Shit, Ian, stop,” he says, pulling away, because he’s actually going to come if he doesn’t, and then, “Tell me you want this,” because it is a legitimate concern. A pity fuck will kill him.

Ian looks him in the eye and says, “I’ve been in love with you since high school.”

Anthony’s hips jerk hard. A spurt of precome leaks out, and Ian absently licks his lips.

“Fuck,” breathes Anthony. “C’mere,” he says, pulling Ian in for a hard kiss.

“Let me blow you,” murmurs Ian, pulling away.

“Yeah, fuck, okay,” says Anthony as leans back onto the couch. “But I’m not going to last long.” He whimpers when Ian kneels in the V of his legs. “ _Fuck.”_

“Maybe next time, since you’re not going to last long,” and damn him, he’s smirking.

“Yeah, next time,” Anthony says, pitching his voice to a deep rumble and feeling satisfied when Ian colors and inhales sharply. “I won’t let you last long this time either,” he promises, although the end of the sentence in lost in a moan when Ian gives his cock an experimental lick. He wraps his mouth around the head, and Anthony’s hips jerk up when he tongues at the slit.

Ian pulls off with a pop, and says, “You’re not allowed to do that when I deepthroat you,” and then smirks when Anthony shudders.

“Shut up and blow me, bitch.” 

Ian complies with a smug smile, pressing his hands firmly to Anthony’s hips before engulfing his cock in the wet heat of his mouth. “No fucking gag reflex,” Anthony mutters, one hand clenched in the blanket he’s sitting on, the other wrapped around Ian’s hand on his hip, when Ian starts inching down. He whines when Ian hums and moans when he swallows around his cock and Anthony can feel his throat ripple around his sensitive dick, but what ends up making him come is Ian looking up into his eyes and flipping his hand over so that he can lace their fingers together. 

He hastily chokes out, “Fuck—Ian, I’m going to—,” in time for Ian to mostly pull off, before coming. Ian swallows most of it, but a dollop trickles out of the corner of his mouth, and Anthony moans harshly, because that is _really fucking hot_ , and pulls Ian up for a kiss.

“I want to come,” murmurs Ian hotly into his mouth, grinding his erection into his thigh. “Anthony, make me come,” and wow, thinks Anthony, running his hand over Ian’s clothed dick, he enjoyed that giving that blowjob almost as much as Anthony enjoyed receiving it.

Anthony slips his hand into Ian’s pants and grabs his cock through the soft fabric of his boxers. Ian grunts and grinds down harder, says, “Anthony, more—”

“Love you,” whispers Anthony, and Ian comes with a shocked, punched out noise. 

“Made you come in your pants,” says Anthony smugly against Ian’s lips.

“Fuck off,” retorts Ian, nudging his face into his neck.

Anthony laughs, soft and fond and impossibly happy. “I love you,” he murmurs into Ian’s hair, wrapping his arms around him.

“Sorry I thought it was a prank,” Ian says into his collarbone. “I spent so long denying it that it’s kind of hard for me to accept.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” replies Anthony, because apparently Ian’s been pining for him for a decade when he could barely stand a few months.

“Well,” says Ian, and Anthony can feel the smirk on his face. “I didn’t really make it easy for you either.”

—

(“It’s wet and sticky,” grumps Ian later.

“Shower sex?” Anthony suggests with a pervy grin.)

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I had enough juice in me to squeeze out another 5k of Ianthony today. Sorry for the porn, which may be lacking. First try, and the experience was a bit awkward. Reading and writing are two pretty different things in the end, aren't they?
> 
> This was quite fun to write. I'm not a big fan of the pining Ian trope (which is ironic, considering I wrote 10k of it yesterday), so I much prefer this type of fic. (Unfortunately, I am more comfortable writing Ian centric/pov stuff, so I kind of have a dilemma.) 
> 
> Like the other fic, this one is mostly canon compliant, but I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies.


End file.
